The Hybrid Theory
by Curreeus
Summary: Watson recieves a mysterious letter from his presumed dead father telling him he isn't who he thought he was...and that he's not quite human.
1. An Odd Revelation

**(A/N): I know this might appear as a bit of an odd theory, but it's what I thought of when I watched the movie! I stole the beginning from **_**A Study in Scarlet, **_**but the rest is based on the movie. I know I took heaps of licence with ages, heights and appearances, but what the heck. Enjoy!**

**Oh, and please review. If enough people like it I'll upload chapter 2.**

**Chapter One:**

**An Odd Revelation**

John H. Watson had obtained his degree to become a Doctor of Medicine when he was just eighteen. After that, he was attached to a regiment in the army as assistant surgeon, and did not return home for years; until he was mellowed by war and prematurely aged by horror and the responsibility thrust upon someone so young so soon.

When he became crippled gravely in his left shoulder and leg, he had been removed from active service, and returned to England, where his life became more eye opening in a matter of weeks than he could have picked up on a battlefield in years.

The first thing he had been notified of, upon his return, was the state of affairs at his parents' home. His father was missing, presumed dead, and the only thing that had been left by him was a letter. A letter everyone had been ordered to, on Mr. Watson Seniors last night at home, leave be until John himself was able to read it.

Very mysterious.

Naturally, Watson had collected the letter, and, in the safety of the room at the hotel at which he was staying, slit open the sealed flap, lifted out the slip of paper within, and, knowing he would be the only one to ever read this, began to latch his eyes onto the first words. It sounded like a normal letter. It read like a normal letter. Yet it was this thin, scrawl covered sheet of paper that changed his life forever.

_John,_

_I hate to enlighten you to this fact in this fashion, but I'm afraid I have no other choice. What you will find contained in here are confessions and information not even your mother knows. _

_Since you are the one this information concerns, I felt it only appropriate that you be the only living being to which I might divulge this. _

Intrigued, Watson eyes darted further down the page, wondering what it was that only he would ever know.

_Do you remember when you were young; you were sometimes spun tales of magical creatures. Creatures like elves, sprites, dryads, giants…when you asked me about them, I told you grudgingly that they weren't real, that there was no substance to these stories at all. _

Watson's eyes lingered over the word 'grudgingly', and his eyebrows met in a frown. He hadn't the foggiest what fairytales had to do with anything. Curiously, he read on.

_When I told you that, I knew perfectly well I was telling you a complete and utter lie, and I hated myself for it. _

_Because the truth is, all these creatures exist, and are closer at hand than you thought. Much closer. _

Watson shook his head, wondering for a moment if it had not been some common madman writing this letter to him, addressing it from his father. He couldn't, however, ignore the fact that the writing was familiar, and the way in which it was written reminded him of his father's tone. Although he was filled with a sense of dread, his hands shaking, worried about what he would find, he couldn't stop his eyes slowly drinking in the familiar handwriting.

_I am partially writing this to inform you of the unique connections you have with these creatures, or, non-human races, so that you might not be kept in the dark your entire life. The first and foremost connection you have with them is me._

_I'm not who you think I am. _

_I am one of these races. I am an elf. _

_This, obviously, makes you one too. _

Watson's first reaction to the words on the page before him was to laugh, with a slight manic tone. His immediate second was to collapse into the nearest chair out of shock. He'd never entirely thought magic and the supernatural was non existent, but he'd never gone as far as to think that elves and such had been real. They'd been things only children and certain deranged persons believed. Now the most trusted family member he'd had was, in all sincerity, telling him it was undoubtedly true. And that he was one of them. It was ludicrous, yet he couldn't help but to read on.

_I know this will come as a shock to you, and I know you won't believe me. So I have several facts to remind and inform you of; things that will prove what I claim is true. _

_The first: Your ears._

Watson's right hand involuntarily went up to finger the mild point at the tip of his ear. Everyone else he'd known had had quite well rounded specimens – the only exception to this had been himself…and his father. He'd always put that down to genes, and an odd one at that. It seemed like the most believable explanation for a medical man.

_Elves, as you have no doubt picked up from various resources, have pointed ears. This is a rather ridiculous statement, as you may be thinking, but I assure you, your ears are pointed because of your non-human bloodline and for no other reason. _

_Such features are not meant simply for decoration. Said ears are very receptive, and will pick up on any sound, depending on how loud it is, the distance between you and it and how hard you are listening at the time. You may have already noticed this, but never been able to explain it._

Watson stopped his fingering and sat there for a moment, thinking of all the times over his lifetime he'd heard all manner of things he couldn't see: people speaking, animals, gunfire, machinery rattling…He'd thought he'd been going mad. Apparently he hadn't.

_Be sure to wear a hat whenever you venture outside from here on. There are many around who are privy to the knowledge of our existence, and who will try to capture and study you for "scientific" purposes. Elves are a rare breed in modern times. Half- elves even more so. _

His fathers reference to him being part of a breed, along with being halfway between one race and another made Watson feel like some sort of mongrel. Then he reminded himself that all this evidence could be proven wrong…couldn't it? It was ludicrous to believe...he knew it was, no matter how believable this was. He shakily returned his eyes to the page, telling himself that silently.

_There are other physical attributes you have inherited from me. For one, full blooded elves are often up to seven and a half feet tall, and their limbs are long; lanky, even. I am a short, stocky elf in comparison, but it still makes you taller and lankier than most humans. You may have realised this when you found few that are six feet seven inches with English blood._

Watson smiled. Now whoever wrote this letter was trying to incorporate his height into this. He'd always been tall, and a bit on the long and skinny side, but he'd always thought it was because his father had been six feet six inches, and children often grew taller than their parents. He didn't consider the fact that if a common madman was writing this letter, he would have no idea as to his exact height. Nor would they have anything to gain by sending him a mysterious letter of this nature.

_Another physical attribute you will have inherited is the elves physical strength. You will probably never have noticed this, since you've always been a gentle spirit, but your strength will only be equally matched by that of a half giant. For some reason, only the elves, who are a mild people by nature, are able to hold their own against a giant. I believe its nature's way of balancing things out, since the giants are ferocious and will kill you as soon as look at you. _

Watson sighed, pulled his fingers through his now prematurely thinning hair and smiled. That sounded exactly like his father. Always having a naturalistic explanation for phenomenon. He re-read the last paragraph, and frowned.

He'd never been that strong, there'd always been others who he'd been outdone by, but had he even been trying at those times he'd been tested? After thought…No. Not against others. He'd never wanted to hurt anyone, and being a doctor had made him less inclined to wreak havoc where he usually cured it. And it wasn't as if he threw himself in front of horses to see if he could bring the creatures down. That was plain madness.

_My final attempt to convince you that you aren't what you were brought up to be is this._

_There are many other members of other races that are in the same predicament as you. It's not as though you are the only hybrid on earth._

Watson jolted as he read the word hybrid. It only deepened his sense of separation that he could already feel inevitably depressing him, although he steadfastly remained trying to convince himself this was a hoax he still couldn't find a convincing reason though.

_The other races: Sprites, dryads, dwarves, and giants…all have half human descendants, however rare. Not too long ago there was a great influx of hybrids into London. I know you will be returning there soon, so I believed I had to inform you of their presence. They blend almost perfectly into society, save for a few minor details. _

_Elves are the easiest to spot because of their telltale ears and physical appearance, but don't expect to see too many of them. There are barely any elf/human hybrids left in England; you're the only one under sixty years of age that I know of. It makes you unique._

Watson shivered, despite the warm air coming from the fire in the corner of the room. He was the last in a line of "half breeds", if this letter was to be believed. He wondered why he hadn't been told about his sooner. If this letter was to be believed, he could probably have made it out of Afghanistan uncrippled for life, if he'd only known--

Cold reality hit him hard when the thought of his service crossed his mind. This all sounded like ridiculous folly when compared to something as cold and brutal as a war. He mentally scolded himself, and for the sake of finishing the letter, he kept reading.

_Giants are, as you can guess, the other easy race to spot, because of obvious reasons. They are known for their brawn, not brains, although they can sometimes be quite cunning. They are thin on the ground as well, keep in mind that you will rarely, if ever, see a Giant/human hybrid. _

_When hybrids became more common, the sprites and dryads led the way when it came to concealing themselves in the human world. They are barely noticeable since they look exactly like humans, save for being a bit lacking height wise. _

_Full-blood sprites are water-dwelling spirits. When the mood takes them (And sprites are prone to moods) they can shed their fishlike tendencies, and walk on land in the guise of humans. They are hard to tell apart from simple looks, and this is true for them and the half sprite hybrids. You will have to observe, and notice the unnaturally quick movements; the way of speaking to throw you off the scent; the surprising lack of strength, even for a normal human; the sharpened eyesight; the often vast intellect, and the way of being so deviously cunning it's infuriating. _

_This is much the same for dryads, save for the fact that they are tree spirits, and are calmer and more level headed. They still have sprite-like tendencies, yet are not as common as sprites. Of all the hybrids you may meet, it's most likely you will meet a sprite/human hybrid._

_He seems very set on that, _came Watson's thoughts. _There's something more to this. _

_Pity he seems to not want to tell me. _

_And so, my son, I leave you, for perhaps the last time. There are matters amongst my, or rather, our, people I must tend to. I have been lingering with humans for far too long. I'm sorry to announce these facts to you like this, but it's the only way I could tell you of what you were without spreading rumours about our existence. _

_I ask you to not tell anyone what this letter contains. It is confidential and not to be shared with anyone you don't trust completely and who are not hybrids themselves. _

_I know you still may not believe me, and I hope someday you will, but remember: I told you this so you could have a full understanding of yourself, not to confuse you. Hopefully one day we will meet again._

_Farewell my son,_

_Sincerely yours,_

_John Watson Sr. _

Watson turned the page over, shook out the envelope, but there was no continuation. No more information to be had.

He slumped in his chair, mulling everything in the letter over. There was no possible way it was true, yet he had a foreboding feeling of dread that it was. Everything in it, all the facts, lined up perfectly, yet as he sat there, his head throbbing, he wished there were no substance to it at all. That he could remain blissfully ignorant. He was still harbouring hopes though, as if tomorrow he'd get a letter contradicting the first, telling him it was a sick joke…

And he knew he wouldn't. If the writer of this letter really was his father, then he would have given everything he meant to disclose in as straightforward a manner as possible. He would only have sent one letter, and he wouldn't go back on what he'd stated, no matter how ridiculous.

Watson's' thoughts were tumbling haphazardly, half-formed, through his head. The only sharp, clear one in the haze of his mind was the fact that he couldn't ignore this. Angry at himself, he shook his head viciously, like a horse ridding itself of flies. Giving a low growl, he stood up and crossed the small hotel room in three strides, throwing the letter to the desk in disgust. Taking another four steps, he strode to the door, pausing to grab his hat, heavy overcoat and the staff awarded to him at the conclusion of his service, then threw the door open, slamming it behind him.

He needed escape. A walk would do for now. He just needed to do something to escape the treacherous thoughts spinning in his head.

2 hours later, he sat at a bar, trying to drown his thoughts into the numbness of being drunk, when a hand tapped him on the shoulder.

Stamford, a military friend of Watson's, didn't know he would change Watson's life forever. But by telling him of the vacancy in 221b Baker Street and the man looking for a roommate, he had unknowingly introduced him to the only man who could have made sense of his life at that moment – after turning it upside down first.

Sherlock Holmes.


	2. The World In All Its Insanity

**(A/N): Thanks for the reviews! Glad to know not everyone thinks I'm completely mad! :D**

**Here's chapter 2, sorry it took so long, and it took me ages to figure out how to write Holmes' character. He's so complicated! So sorry if he doesn't seem quite right, as this is my first time writing him. Plus I'm lazy, and school caught up with me.**

**Don't like, don't read. **

**Oh, and reviews are nice too, if you can be bothered to write them, cos then I might move my lazy butt for the next chapter.**

**Chapter Two:**

**The World in All Its Insanity**

221b Baker Street had been occupied by two tenants for a few months when Dr. John Watson had been searching through a long forgotten box of papers and books, deciding to finally unpack them. At the bottom he'd found a letter that seemed fairly new, a few weeks old, maybe? Curiously he'd taken out the page contained inside the envelope, which was still crisp and had only been read once or twice. He cast his eyes over familiar writing, embodied in words that struck a chord of dim memory…

_John,_

_ I hate to enlighten you to this fact in this fashion, but I'm afraid I have no other choice…_

Watson jumped, and then went cold at the memory of what this letter contained. He turned slyly to Holmes, who was sitting in his armchair, eyes closed, pipe sitting at a jaunty angle in his mouth, plucking away at his violin, then he silently folded the letter and began to put it away.

"If you're worried I'll find out what that letter contains, don't be. I've already taken the liberty of reading it."

Watson jumped at the revelation, and turned to Holmes, frowning at him.

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew I had this. It's most probably the way I've been tying my shoelaces for the past week or something ridiculous."

"Quite right." Holmes ceased his plucking for a moment, opening his eyes. "Although what you class as ridiculous in fact makes perfect logical sense to me, that wasn't what betrayed the presence of the letter in your hand. It was quite simply the fact that you had gone quiet for a moment, and the observation that you were indeed looking through that box moments ago, which I knew contained said letter. You aren't the sort of person to believe in such things, so I knew you would be somewhat uncomfortable. Quite simple, really."

Watson rolled his eyes. It was just like Holmes to revel in his success for as long as possible, so as to make himself seem superior. He looked back at the letter, and returned to the subject at hand.

"You were looking at letters of mine?" He said, an annoyed tone entering his voice.

Holmes surveyed Watson with calm surprise. "Really Watson, if we're to live together without issue, we must trust each other completely. Also, your articles are new material to me – they are most… intriguing."

Watson realised his mouth was hanging open in disbelief – he quickly closed it and shook his head.

"What goes through your head…I digress. Holmes, what did you make of it?" Watson brandished the letter at Holmes as if it were a dangerous explosive.

Holmes quite calmly took the envelope from Watson, quickly lifting it out and scanning the first line, just as Watson had done moments ago.

"Well, old boy, it was something I gave much thought to. Not knowing your father, I was at a loss as to whether he was liable to write such a thing in jest or not. Considering how you turned out, I decided not."

Watson crossed his arms and frowned. He was mentally settling himself in for a long explanation of Holmes' logic – yet again. He wasn't too worried about his particular occasion though, seeing as he needed Holmes opinion, anyone's opinion, for some closure about his. He settled in his armchair, which was positioned next to Holmes', and waited for him to continue. Holmes cleared his throat and did so.

"And so, I reviewed the facts pointed out in this letter, and drew my conclusions. Would you like some insight?"

Watson sighed. "Yes Holmes, if only you would stop dancing around the subject and tell me!"

Holmes nodded slightly, and, picking up his violin bow, held it loosely in one hand.

"Firstly, I had to watch you quite carefully, and I noticed that the first fact your father pointed out was your ears."

The violin bow flicked up to Watson's hat, which he had decided to wear inside for some strange reason, and tipped it off Watson's head quickly.

"This is quite true, and somewhat remarkably. I haven't seen ears quite that pointed for a while, Watson." Watson batted the bow away with the back of his hand and grabbed his hat from where it had fallen, jamming it back on his head, although he really didn't need to when he was indoors. He scowled at Holmes.

"The second," said Holmes, continuing nonchalantly, "is your height. You are rather tall, Watson."

Watson crossed his arms over his chest and looked petulantly at the floor. He sighed, and interrupted Holmes as he went to speak again.

"Holmes, all of this can be put down to either coincidence or genetics. It's not logical to put this down to something a ridiculous as that letter. You, as a scientific man yourself, should have known that! I don't know why-"

"Yes, Watson, but you overlook several important points. Yes, it seems unlikely that such things exist, let alone that you are one, but it does not excuse the fact that these theories are yet to be proved incorrect. One must always twist theories to suit facts, instead of facts to suit theories. At present, you are narrowing your mind so that you exclude all possibilities. That is not the way one may come to a suitable explanation."

Watson sighed, collapsing back into the chair he was seated in, giving up on trying to win an argument with Holmes. The man was far too clever.

"I must admit, I haven't seen you in combat of any sort, so I cannot say whether you are as physically adept as your father assumes, so I will leave that point well enough alone. The last point alluded to is that hybrids are common in London and you will have to look for certain signs to find them, and he then goes on to write several things to look for. I must say, he is quite thorough and accurate."

Watson snorted, sitting forward in his chair. "And how would you know that, Holmes? Have you read books on the subject?"

Holmes looked at him with raised eyebrows, as if he had missed something obvious.

"Of course not. I know that because I am observant."

Watson frowned, leaning slightly closer to Holmes. He continued.

"You see, there are a large number of people who meet, once every so often, near the docks to discuss certain matters about themselves.

They are the hybrids of London, and I have seen them with my own eyes."

Watson's frown deepened. "So there is a group of people who claim to be half fairytale creature. Why, Holmes, am I inclined not to believe you?"

Holmes sighed. "Because you are not inclined in the least to be thrown outside of your ideals and accept the fact that these people exist and you are one."

Watson was silenced by the outburst, which had a somewhat angry streak to it, and was startled even more by what Holmes muttered softly after.

"And I'm one also."

Watson's head snapped around so quickly there was a crack of complaint from his spine. Holmes was looking nonchalant, a small smile on his face, his eyes closed. Watson frowned at him.

"Holmes, you didn't just say – what I thought you said, did you?"

Holmes opened his eyes and looked at him.

"That depends on what you thought I said. My basic meaning was that yes, I am in fact also a hybrid."

Watson laughed at himself for having a strange sense of curiosity at this time, but he asked his question anyway. "What sort of hybrid are you?"

Holmes answered without hesitation. "I am a sprite hybrid. My mother didn't tell me she was a sprite until I was too old to believe in such things, and even then I had to be confronted with solid evidence before I too believed it. That evidence came in the form of this… congregation that gathers so its members may feel at one with themselves over the fact that they are not alone."

Watson sat there, stunned. "You really don't expect me to believe you, do you?"

Holmes smiled at him. "I don't expect you to, but I wish you would. It is foolish to not believe the truth."

Watson put his head in his hands. "Holmes, you realise there is almost no proof for your case, don't you? Just a few open ended theories that don't really conclude anything!" Holmes stood up, his eyes wide, as if he had just realised something.

"Watson, I am no performing animal, but if you need evidence, I will supply one last piece."

Watson frowned, looking at Holmes suspiciously. "What do you - ?"

Before he could finish his sentence, Holmes had crossed the room and was standing in front of the coat stand – faster than Watson's eyes could catch, moving so quickly his figure was a blur.

A sentence echoed, uninvited, in Watson's head: _You will have to observe, and notice the unnaturally quick movements… the often vast intellect… the way of being so deviously cunning it's infuriating._

That was the perfect description of Holmes.

"I think you need some time alone with your thoughts," came Holmes' voice from next to the hat stand. I will leave you for a while."

With that, he turned on his heel, and with a speed as quick as his last, he moved to the door to his room, which clicked, swung open and closed again within the space of a half a second, maybe less.

Watson shook his head, and fetched a novel he was reading from his room, deciding unpacking the rest of his boxes wouldn't be a pleasant experience at best after these occurrences. He couldn't concentrate though, and found his mind wandering back to the conversation between himself and Holmes. He was infuriated with himself, but even more annoyed at Holmes for planting such seeds of doubt in his beliefs in his mind. Muttering to himself, he resigned to lying flat on his bed, staring unseeingly at the ceiling.

"Damn you Sherlock Holmes," he said as he tried to cast his mind off onto other subjects. His efforts were futile, and he did not move from his stationary spot on the bed until Ms Hudson brought up dinner.

Three hours later.


	3. The Point of No Return

**A/N: I know I've taken FOREVER to post this! I feel ultimately guilty! It's just that bothersome thing called life and me being my lazy self. If you're curious about what life entailed it's on my profile. **

**Anyways, a great gargantuan thankyou for all my reviewers so far! I'm sorry I took so long to credit you. That is: ****Rhyolight04****, ****mildetryth****, ****HikariFighter****, ****Isis the Sphinx****, ****Barbossa's Monkey****, ****DaughterofDeath****, ****Brooke-Bowers****, ****Ottsel Instinct**** and MagnusSpark. **

**Thankyou's and hugs all around! I have finally come out of my corner to write this because of you! :D **

**And now, *drum roll* the final chapter. Read on! **

…

**The Point of No Return is an Unnerving Place to Be**

221b Baker Street was a silent abode for the next few days, or was it a week?

Watson wasn't sure.

He had been doing almost nothing with his days except reading, the very occasional walk (because of his injuries), gambling (a disreputable habit he had found himself falling into); but most of all just thinking. He thought of his life up until the letter had been sent to him, Holmes had entered his life and set it on a completely different track, then told him the letter was true… just mulling things over so many times they barely seemed like the original subjects any more.

He had grown tired of thinking; he'd wanted to do something. And so, despite his silent anger at Holmes, he had jumped at the chance to go on a case with him. He had been so eager, in fact, that he hadn't even inquired as to where they were going, and he'd just followed Holmes blindly. He'd disregarded everything – The fact that he'd self diagnosed and knew he had to rest up his wounds, the fact that going with Holmes more often than not got him almost killed or at least injured, and the fact that he wasn't even sure of his identity any more. Now look where it had led him.

He was sitting in a cell in a hidden warehouse for smugglers, bound by rope; his wrists were wound behind his back, bound by handcuffs, and his knees were drawn up to his chin. The manacles around his wrists were tight, and they chaffed him every time he moved, so he was trying to refrain from the act. His coat, waistcoat, shirt and trousers, even though they were built for London weather, did little to keep him warm. It was a winter night, he was shivering, and was silently seething at Holmes, who, although he was in the exact same situation, and was a complete mimic of Watson's pose (except facing him), had his eyes closed and looked completely at peace.

"Why do I do these things to myself? Honestly, I should know better than to follow you anyplace that takes your fancy, and then try to interfere with those that bode ill for you."

Holmes opened his eyes. "Yes, you should. But it's lucky for me that you don't, or they would have simply killed me, instead of capturing us both."

"Why should my company make any difference to a band of smugglers? There were only two of us, and innumerable gang members. They'd have had absolutely no trouble should they have decided to kill us both."

Holmes' face took on a surprised expression. "Please, Watson, there were only sixteen of them. And on the contrary, of course they would have had trouble killing us both. Did you listen to anything I told you a week ago?"

So it had been a week. "If you are talking about our conversation about the contents of that letter I received…"

He spat the word "letter".

"Yes. What is the conclusion your ponderings have brought about?"

Watson shrugged, then grit his teeth as the manacles rubbed on his already raw wrists. "I am at a loss for an explanation. I honestly don't know what to believe any more."

Holmes curled his legs under himself and leaned forward on them, his expression eager.

"Then you are finally free to draw your own conclusions. Tell me, what did you make of my actions at the conclusion of our conversation?"

Watson explored his face for a moment, then answered. "I was, and still am, thoroughly puzzled. They fit only into theories my father or yourself has offered, neither of which I'm inclined to believe until I see more proof."

Holmes sighed, but stayed in his pose of expectancy, returning his dark gaze to Watson's. "There is one last plea I can make, as long as you agree to what I am about to ask of you."

It was Watson's opportunity to sigh. "Well… As long as it's not life risking, then I suppose…" Holmes' face split in a smile. "Excellent! Alright then, Watson, I want you to strain on your manacles. Pull as hard as you can on those handcuffs, and don't stop."

Watson sighed, his fathers' theory about physical adeptness coming to mind. "Holmes…"

"Watson, you aren't being too affable…first you tell me you will agree to my terms, the next you won't! Make up your mind old boy!"

Watson sighed, and, knowing it would be futile, tugged at the manacles holding his wrists in place. He ground his eyes shut against the pain, but kept pulling.

Nothing happened.

Watson sighed, and Holmes bowed his head, his brows furrowed in thought. They stayed in their respective positions, Holmes on his knees, head bowed, Watson with his knees drawn up to his chest and back against the wall, both pairs of wrists behind their backs.

It must have been about ten minutes that they sat there, unmoving, until the tower clock, far in the distance, could faintly be heard striking eight o'clock.

And a voice, that of a young girl, who couldn't be older than four, drifted through the barred window of the cell.

_The grass of the meadow is soft and sweet, _

_The children skip down on their small merry feet,_

_To the wee folk of legend, the wee folk of rhyme._

Watson pricked up his ears. He recognised the tune, and the words, or at least some of them. Digging through grey veils of memory, he started trying to recognise where he'd heard it from.

_Whilst leaping and bounding the stiles with laughter,_

_Their silvery voices like trickling water,_

_The wee folk of legend, unaltered by time._

Watson nodded slowly to himself, the waters of his memory parting to allow him flashes of a time he remembered dimly. Before the war, when his leg and shoulder were both intact and he was less than a decade old. Most likely less than half a decade old. He remembered being small and close to the ground, and being drawn up on his Aunt Maryanne Watson's knee to hear her light, soft voice murmur the song softly, the words carrying like miniscule birds to his small ears of the time. As he could recall, she'd been a bit…odd. She'd taken liberties considered most improper, and she'd never married. He still sat there wide eyed, listening to every word she'd said before running down to the woodlands just outside of townto search under every nook and cranny and plant foliage he could find. Especially the mushrooms.

It was strange…he'd met her a grand total of about four occasions before she mysteriously disappeared with no explanation, yet he recalled her face perfectly. Her bright blue eyes that his father and he in turn shared…her angular features and height…and her strange point-tipped ears…

Watson sat up straight, his manacles chaffing, yet his mind far from the dull pain he received. His aunt had had pointed ears. He'd only ever seen her without a bonnet once, and she had had long blonde hair to cover them, but he'd seen them. And there had been countless times she'd lifted him onto her shoulders effortlessly, despite him being about five at the time, outrageously tall for such an age and her being a woman…

And that girl in the streets, whose voice was slowly fading into the distance, faithfully reciting the next verse – girl's voices couldn't carry that far, could they? And certainly not over the night traffic of London, even in this deserted place.

"Hold on now…" He said, lifting himself to his feet without the help of his arms. He staggered over to the window from the inertia of throwing himself off the floor and wordlessly looked out into the street through the bars that blocked the window.

The street outside was deserted. There was no night traffic, people, or four year old little singing girls.

"Holmes…" said Watson, swallowing, his voice almost cracking. "Can you…" Another swallow, dry this time. "Hear anything?"

Holmes raised his eye level from the floor to flit from Watson at the window to the window itself. He slowly shook his head.

"No… traffic? No voices? Nothing?" Watson's voice broke on the last word, sailing up about half an octave.

Holmes shook his head again, his expression neutral. "No, am I supposed to be hearing something, old chap?"

Watson returned his gaze to the street, searching for any signs of life where there were none.

He was still looking sometime later when a violent shiver wracked his already freezing body and he stamped on the spot, wanting full use of his arms in orders to hug them close to his body, creating the illusion of warmth. A thought, unbidden, came into his mind. _An elf could probably do it…_

He smiled almost manically.

_Well, _he thought, insanely happily for some reason._ It's lucky there is a half-elf present, isn't it? There's no harm in trying._

Breathing out through his nose, he closed his eyes for a moment, pulling smoothly until he felt he could pull no harder, and then he relaxed momentarily in order to give himself leverage to tug.

Nothing happened, again. But unfazed, he tugged again, twisting his wrists differently in order to give himself a better angle, painfully aware of Holmes' eyes on him. Ignoring them, again he tugged, as hard as before.

Only to discover it wasn't his hardest anymore. He realised that he could in fact pull much harder, and there being no obstacle to his doing this, he tugged again, only for a repeat performance of it being revealed to not be his hardest.

Smiling, he kept pulling, each pull revealing itself to be actually quite mediocre compared to the next. It took him at least two minutes, but finally he reached the limit, when he could pull no harder. With a muffled grunt, he wrenched his wrists apart, the muscles all the way up his arms straining, and heard a loud snap, a crack reminiscent of gunfire.

Watson slowly lifted his now free hands in front of his face to be confronted with the image of a ruined pair of handcuffs. Part of the chain linking the two manacles had snapped, making it look like some sort of dough child's toy, or as if the metal had been white-hot and had simply torn like warm wax, save for the fact that the manacles were cold enough to almost fool Watson into believing they were made of ice.

"Surely you jest*," He said sarcastically to himself, though he was grinning somewhat manically.

Holmes stood up, a look of feigned nonchalance on his face. "Wasn't there something in that "letter" of yours that said something about, oh, I don't know, _physical strength?"_

"Yes," said Watson with a sly grin. "And something about receptive ears…that will pick up sounds no-one else can? There might have been…"

Holmes smiled, and then disappeared from Watson's shoulder to appear between him and the wall, forcing Watson to take a step back whilst fixing him with what he obviously assumed to be a charming smile.

"Now I can't help but notice that I appear to be in the same predicament that you were, not too long ago… would you mind giving me a hand?"

Watson smiled, and, wrenching the iron around so that it too snapped, leaving a hole big enough to slip his hand through, he dropped one manacle to the floor, followed closely by the other before making quick work of Holmes' own manacles. He then strode over to the door, inspecting the lock. Holmes simply stood where he was, now looking out the window and formulating a plan of escape as he rubbed his also raw wrists.

"Now…That lock might prove to be some sort of trouble, seeing as they relieved me of my lock picks, but seeing as there is now a surplus of iron - "

He jumped and spun around as there was a thump and yet another large snap, seeing Watson striding purposefully down the hallway and leaving the ruined lock behind him, dangling precariously from the door, which was swinging on its nearly broken hinges.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have…Oh, never mind," he muttered to himself, following Watson's suit and scuttling off down the hallway.

It didn't take them too long to recover their possessions – they hadn't been hidden too well, merely thrown on a table in the corner of the main room. Subduing the smugglers was another story, but they managed fine, or at least Holmes did whilst Watson managed to knock them out without killing them, thankfully. Then, spying a conveniently placed coil of rope next to their items on the table, Holmes then tied the smugglers up together at immeasurable speed. As it turned out, they had been taken somewhere in West End, and once Holmes verified where they were it was a small feat to find their way back to Baker Street.

"Finally come to terms with ourselves, have we?" Said Holmes sarcastically as Watson opened the door as if the handle were made of cobwebs that he mustn't disturb.

So as to avoid crushing the brass of the doorknob with strength he now had limited control over.

Once the door was open, he turned and grinned at Holmes.

"I suppose you could call it that. That or finally believing one's half-mad friend."

Holmes smirked. "If I'm half-mad, then what are you? I'm not the one who knocked several men unconscious after breaking out of iron manacles and a cell of the like."

Watson hung his coat and hat on the stand inside the door and led the way up the stairs before acknowledging Holmes.

"Yes…point taken." He stopped at the door of his room and laid his hand oh-so-gently on the knob, opening it just as gently. He turned to Holmes, still smiling. "Now, is there anything else at all that you'd like to tell me about my identity that will change the way I live forever? Or was that it?"

Holmes feigned thought, leaning against the balustrade, then shrugged. "I should warn you about the potential danger of full moons now you've discovered that strength of yours…but I'm quite sure you are thoroughly tired of my ceaseless explanations of yourself. Goodnight, Watson."

"Wait…Full moons?" Watson ducked his head inside his room so as to glance out the window and spy the full lunar phase hanging in the sky. "Holmes…"

But all he was met with was the impossibly quick pattering of Holmes' feet and the click of the lock as the man retreated inside his own room.

Leaving one confused Watson standing outside his own door. He sighed.

"You just love leaving me without explanations, don't you?"

And with that, lost in thought he stepped into his own room and closed the door without care to do it as gently as he'd opened it– a precariously secured picture Ms Hudson had placed on the hallway fell to the floor and shattered as the door met the doorframe with a loud bang.

Watson winced as he heard the smash. Then he sighed again.

"This could take some getting used to."

The End

…

**Whew! *wipes brow* My first Fanfiction finally draws to a close. Please tell me what you think! If you do you receive cyber cookies and maybe a sequel in which Watson discovers the danger of full moons. :D Perhaps. Sorry for the strange conclusion – they're not my forte. **

**Trivia: The song the little girl sings is mine – I couldn't find anything about fairy folk from England before 1850, so I …improvised. ;) Please don't annoy me about it sucking – I know it does. It just took me a while to figure that part out, and then that annoying thing called life interrupted. **

**Love to everyone who read and commented on this – You made my day enough times to have made my week. :D **

…

*****_Surely you jest –__Not exactly a period saying, but the only__suitable replacement I could think of for 'are you kidding me', which can't really be replaced easily. :D_


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